


Wolf 'Em Down Tacos

by Mimi (SillyMimi)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Food Service, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Chef Stiles, Deputy Derek Hale, Flirting, Fluff, Food Trucks, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 02:36:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7995526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SillyMimi/pseuds/Mimi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone knows the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.</p><p>AKA the Sterek food truck AU nobody asked for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wolf 'Em Down Tacos

The first time Stiles goes over to Scott’s, he's five years old, and his parents come with him to talk about Adult Stuff with Mr. and Mrs. McCall. While their parents meet, Stiles pulls on Scott’s shirt and says in a loud hush, “I'm hungry.”

Scott's face lights up, and he leads Stiles to the kitchen. “Okay!” he exclaims with a crooked grin. “You like tacos?”

Stiles gasps. “Like Taco Bell?!”

Scott laughs and opens the fridge. “Yeah, but like better.”

Stiles watches with wide eyes as Scott warms tortillas on a flat pan. “Why are they so small?” Stiles asks, peeking around Scott.

“They're corn tortillas,” Scott answers with another grin. “You prob’ly have flour ones at your house, huh?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, brows furrowed, “and we heat ‘em up in the nuker.”

Scott tilts his head at him, and Stiles points at the microwave on the counter. “You know, the _nuker_ ,” he repeats, as if it were obvious.

Laughing again, Scott drops the warm tortillas on a waiting plate. “We just call it the microwave,” he says with a good-natured glow.

Stiles watches with wide-eyed, childish curiosity as Scott assembles four tacos. Stiles has a question for every component, and Scott answers with delighted patience.

“What kind of meat is that?”

“Carne asada. Like marinated steak.”

“Oh!” Stiles gasps and points at the chunk of white something in Scott’s hands. “What's _that_?”

Scott beams and squishes the white thing between his fingers, and bits of it crumble atop their tacos. “It's queso fresco. Cheese.”

“ _That's_ cheese?” Stiles asks, gaping. “All our cheese is in slices! And it's _yellow_.” 

Scott looks pleased to be introducing his new friend to all this cool food. “Do you wanna crumble some?”

Stiles nods rapidly and says, “Yeah!”

Scott hands over the cheese, and Stiles holds it like it’s gold. It’s soft in his hands, and he carefully squeezes it between his fingers.

“Yeah,” Scott encourages, “that's good.”

Stiles pinches off the queso fresco and drops it atop the tacos with a gleeful laugh.

“Almost forgot the guacamole,” Scott says suddenly, setting a glass container beside the tacos.

Stiles pokes at the hard brown sphere in the middle of the bright guacamole. “What's that?”

“The avocado pit,” Scott explains. “Mom says it keeps the guacamole fresher for longer.”

Stiles grins. “Cool.”

At last, the finished tacos sit before them, tucked neatly into a bowl. They're brighter than anything he's ever gotten from Taco Bell, and they smell amazing. Like freshness and spices and something he can't place.

Stiles licks his lips and says, “They're so pretty I almost don't want to eat ‘em.”

A taco shoved halfway into his mouth, Scott laughs and chews. “It's okay, Stiles,” is all he says once he swallows, but it's good enough for Stiles.

He wraps his small hands around a taco and cradles it up towards his mouth, then takes a giant bite. Flavor bursts on his tongue, and Stiles makes an involuntary sound of utter delight. The meat is moist and savory; the cheese creamy and salty; and it's all rounded out by the cooling guacamole, a hint of lime singing on his cheeks.

“Oh my God,” Stiles says, mouth full and eyes wide.

Scott beams, and Stiles scarfs down the rest of his tacos with eager gusto.

*

Stiles starts hanging out at Scott's almost every day. He asks Scott and Mrs. McCall a million different questions, and neither of them seem to tire of it. (Sometimes Mrs. McCall sighs before answering, but she always answers.)

Scott and Stiles make food together, just because they want to. Mrs. McCall helps them marinate carne asada before school, then they come home and grill it. They mash avocados, dice tomatoes and onion, and she teaches them other recipes too. Cilantro rice, empanadas, flan -- Stiles's mom really likes the flan, and he brings it to her in the hospital.

When her memory starts to go, he makes her the custard more and more. She can't remember him but she still loves his food.

After she passes, Stiles doesn't feel like cooking anymore. He spends weeks focusing on schoolwork, playing video games, or just staring at his ceiling.

At the three week mark, he wakes from a nap to find Scott in his kitchen, surrounded by ingredients. “Let's make flan,” Scott says simply, and though there's a twist in his gut, Stiles nods.

Baking his mother's favorite treat does hurt, but it gives him something else -- release. He pours every part of himself into this plain custard, and when they take the first bite, it's with relish and laughter.

“That’s the best batch we've ever made,” Scott declares with a smile, and Stiles reaches up to wipe his eyes.

“Yeah,” he agrees, heart light.

By the time they hit seventh grade, Mrs. McCall gets to come home to a fully prepared meal.

“This I can get used to,” she says with relief, plopping down at the table, still in her scrubs. Stiles and Scott look on with anticipation as she bites into their cilantro-lime chicken tacos.

Her eyes pop out, and her hand goes to cover her mouth. She exclaims around a mouthful of food, “This is really good.”

Scott and Stiles high-five as she swallows to ask, “Where did you find this recipe?”

The boys exchange a look, then say together, “We made it.” Scott has the decency to look sheepish, but Stiles flashes a smug grin.

Mrs. McCall flashes a thumbs up and manages a, “Very good, boys,” before she goes in for another bite.

Stiles and Scott take a ton of cooking classes at Beacon Hills High, and after they graduate, they both apply for entry level cook positions at a local Mexican restaurant called La Cocina Villalobos.

“I know I'm probably the whitest white boy you've ever met,” Stiles says at the interview, “but I love Mexican cuisine. You guys are as authentic as it gets, I wanna learn from you.”

His interviewer, the owner's daughter Laura, raises an eyebrow. “Should I worry about you and Mr. McCall becoming our competition, Mr. Stilinski?” she asks in a measured tone, and Stiles very genuinely scrunches his face up.

“I don't think so,” he answers honestly. “We haven't thought about it that far.”

*

Four years later, Stiles throws open the door to their food truck, a wolf tearing apart a plate of tacos painted on the side. The words, “WOLF ‘EM DOWN TACOS” hover over the animal's head.

Stiles finds Scott swiftly prepping for the day. He dices onions, papaya, mango, and pineapple in a few swift chops of his knife. Stiles holds the newspaper out for Scott to read.

“Dude, we're in the paper!” he announces breathlessly, then reads the article title, “‘Beacon Hills on the Hunt for Tacos.’”

Scott pauses and wipes his hands on his apron before taking the paper in hand. He reads, “‘Local chefs Szczeosny--’”

“Gesundheit,” Stiles quickly interjects. Scott cracks a smile and keeps reading.

“‘--Stilinski and Scott McCall use social media to draw big crowds to their hip taco truck.”

“I told you a scavenger hunt would be dope,” Stiles pipes up again. Phone in hand, he's already on their Twitter, setting up the clue for their truck location today. Scott just nods as he continues reading.

“‘But the hype surrounding Wolf ‘Em Down Tacos is more than just social media savvy and exclusivity -- the tacos are bomb.’” Scott beams and looks at Stiles to emphasize, “ _Bomb_ , dude! Can they say ‘bomb’ in the paper?”

Stiles points at the author’s name. “Apparently Danny Mahealani can.”

Scott takes the article and pins it above the order window where they can see it, and Stiles slings his arm around Scott's shoulders. “Awesome,” he says, feeling light and bubbly, and Scott beams.

*

“Scotty, hit me with one carnitas combo and one chicken combo!” Stiles calls back, and Scott swiftly starts up the order.

“Going on the grill,” he says, and Stiles sets up the assembly line.

“That's gonna be ten bucks,” Stiles tells the customers, two twenty-something girls with their phones in their hands. With a quick exchange of cash and some swift handiwork, the girls step away with plates of two tacos, refried beans, and cilantro rice.

Stiles leans on the counter as the next customer comes up, and the first thing he sees is the deputy uniform. It's only moments later he notices how _well_ the guy fills out that uniform.

“Hey, did my dad send you?” Stiles asks in a strained voice, and he reaches for some tortillas to start his dad's usual.

“No,” the deputy deadpans, and he leans in slightly to look Stiles in the eye -- _Whoa_. There's a split second where Stiles can't think or speak because all he registers is a chiseled jaw, A+ beard game, broad shoulders, and intense hazel eyes.

Stiles licks his lips and adjusts his backwards Mets cap as he asks, “You're, uh, new?”

The deputy raises an eyebrow and ignores the question, instead saying, “You can't park your food truck here, this area is for the--”

“Wine and Art Festival, I know, dude,” Stiles says quickly, and the deputy squints.

“Not dude,” he says sternly. “Deputy Hale. The festival specifically forbids food trucks and other vendors--”

“Yeah, but we have permission,” Stiles interrupts, and notices the line building up behind Deputy Hale. He wipes his hands on his apron and says, “Just a sec.”

He whirls around and tells Scott to cover him with a pat on the back, then slips out of the truck. Deputy Hale waits just outside, and now face to face on the same ground, Stiles becomes acutely aware of how much bulk Hale has. Dude's _shredded_. He's almost bursting out of his uniform with tight pecs and bulging arms.

“Deputy,” he starts, with as much composure as he can manage, “the organizers said it was cool if we parked here. Otherwise all these winos would be falling over everywhere.”

The deputy sighs and counters, “If I trusted everyone's word over written, explicit permission--”

“No, yeah, I know,” Stiles says quickly, and Deputy Hale sets his jaw.

“Can you not interrupt me?” he says, quiet and terse, and Stiles snaps his mouth shut.

“Sorry,” he grumbles, “let me call the organizer, okay? I swear we're allowed to be here. I'll make you some tacos while you wait!”

Deputy Hale raises his eyebrows and says flatly, “Are you trying to bribe me?”

Stiles throws up his hands in surrender, waving them back and forth with a laugh. “No, no, Deputy,” he says rapidly. “Just let me apologize for the trouble. With tasty tacos.”

The deputy doesn't refuse, so Stiles hops back into the truck. He calls up the festival organizer, a petite woman named Lydia Martin, and simultaneously cooks up a special for Hale.

Ten minutes later, he hops back out with a plate of three tacos and holds it out to the deputy. “Lydia's sending someone down with written permission for you to look at,” he says breathlessly, then he points to the tacos.

“This one is a carnitas taco with fresh avocado, crema, and grilled green onion. The one in the middle is lime-chicken with queso fresco, avocado, tomatoes, and lettuce. The last one is carne asada with queso fresco, jalapeños, avocado crema, and sliced radishes. All of ‘em garnished with fresh cilantro.”

He grins and says, “Kinda gave you a little sampler there.” The deputy slowly takes the offering. Just before returning to his truck, Stiles glances over at Hale to see him pluck off the radishes, and he can't help smiling.

Stiles hustles back to work, but his gaze keeps flitting back to Deputy Hale, who eats every bite of his meal. There's a bouncy, elated feeling in his chest when one corner of the grumpy deputy’s mouth curves up.

A festival volunteer rolls up in a golf cart and hands Hale a slip of paper, and he stares at it a long time before locking eyes with Stiles and gesturing for him to come out. Stiles dashes out and almost trips on the last stair.

“What's up?” he asks, going to Deputy Hale’s side. He simply holds out the paper, which reads, _Let Stilinski do what he wants_ , with Lydia's elegant signature beneath it.

Stiles laughs, “Yeah, uh, I'm Stilinski.”

Hale stares at him, then murmurs, “Like Sheriff Stilinski.”

“That would be the dad I mentioned earlier,” Stiles says with a graceless flop of one hand.

The deputy looks horrified as he mutters, “I accosted the sheriff’s son.”

Stiles frantically waves his hands in front of himself and says, “No, no, man! We're good! I was a dick before, that's on me.”

Hale still looks mortified, his eyes wide and shoulders tense. “Mister… Stilinski,” he starts awkwardly.

“Stiles,” he provides with a grin, and Deputy Hale sighs, some of the tension leaking from his straight posture.

“Stiles,” Hale repeats, quiet, “I'm sorry for the trouble.”

Stiles shakes his head. “Dude, no,” he says with warmth, “you were just doing your job, I get it. We're cool. Come by anytime, okay? We give a discount to anyone that works at the station.”

After a pause, Hale nods, looking reassured. With a little wave, Stiles climbs back into the truck to help Scott, but he keeps one eye on Deputy Hale until he steps into his cruiser and drives off.

“Who was that?” Scott asks as he works.

“Deputy Hale,” Stiles replies, and they both pause.

“Hale as in--” Scott starts, and Stiles picks up the thought for him.

“Talia Hale--”

Scott's eyebrows go up. “--our old boss?”

They both look at each other, and Stiles feels something twist in his stomach. “You don't think that was like… Talia’s nephew or something?

“I thought Laura had a little brother?” Scott asks over the sizzle of the grill.

Stiles frowns, musing aloud, “Yeah, Talia always got a to-go order for her son. I must have made that order two, three times a week.” He smiles, recalling, “Sliver of queso fresco on the side. No radishes.”

Suddenly, he remembers Deputy Hale plucking the radishes off his carne asada tacos, and he shakes his head. “There's no way,” he says under his breath, staring down the road in the direction Hale had driven off.

*

Stiles pops off his cap to wipe his forehead with his sleeve, then shoves it back on to face the newest customer. “Hey,” he starts brightly, but his mouth goes slack.

A familiar deputy ducks to meet his gaze, this time in a tight olive Henley and blue jeans. “Stiles,” Hale says with a faint smile, looking effortlessly beautiful.

Stiles's mouth goes dry but he still croaks, “Deputy Hale!”

“It's Derek right now,” Hale, er, Derek says easily.

“Derek,” Stiles says, the name bubbling out of him, and he must be grinning. “Let me guess. Carne asada tacos, extra slice of queso fresco, no radishes.”

Derek looks genuinely surprised as he says, “Yeah. How did you…” He raises his eyebrows, curious.

“I used to work for your mom,” Stiles explains, still beaming. “She'd get that order to go, said it was for her son. Extra cheese, no radishes -- I imagined a little kid, not gonna lie.” He unconsciously licks his lips. “But you're… definitely not that.”

“Smooth, dude,” Scott says behind him. Stiles blindly reaches back with one hand to swat at him, and Scott laughs when Stiles smacks his shoulder.

Derek's face seems to light up, and he steps closer. “That was you,” he says, a little breathless. “Stiles, I'm…” He looks suddenly bashful, cheeks flushing. “I had those tacos all the time, you're a great chef.”

Stiles ducks his head with a huff of a laugh. “I try,” is all he says, and Derek looks at him differently, like something has changed.

“I'd love some more of your tacos,” he says seriously, and Stiles nods.

“Sure thing,” he says happily, something warm unfurling in his chest.

“I make the tacos, too,” Scott mutters, a little dejected, as Stiles bumps him out of the way to make Derek's food.

Derek comes by at least three times a week. He must follow them religiously on Twitter to find them so fast. Stiles posts the daily riddle for their secret truck location, and Derek is there in minutes. Sometimes he's in plain clothes, but he'll even stop by in his uniform when he's on duty. Stiles's mouth always feels extra dry on those days.

It's a typical warm Saturday afternoon when Derek visits again. Stiles lights up at the sight of him. He leans on the counter, sticking his head halfway through the window.

“Been a while, like -- what? A day?” Stiles teases. “Liked the tacos that much, huh?”

Derek's hazel eyes seem to gleam as he says, suave as hell, “The tacos aren't the only things I like.” Stiles's stomach flips.

Behind him, Scott inhales sharply and whispers, “Holy crap that was smooth.” 

Derek raises his eyebrows, and Stiles laughs nervously, inadvertently slamming his head on the top of the window. “Shit,” he yelps.

Derek looks immediately concerned, eyebrows drawing together. “Are you--” he starts, and Stiles nods.

“Yeah, yeah,” he reassures him rapidly, rubbing his head where it now throbs under his hat. “Just _ow_.”

Derek's face softens as he shakes his head. “Are you able to make me tacos?” he asks, tilting his head and looking… fond. It makes Stiles's blood pound in his ears.

“Yeah,” Stiles says again, but Derek reaches up and lays one hand atop Stiles's -- his heart stutters in his chest as Derek moves closer.

“Let me finish,” he says softly, and Stiles nods. After a beat, Derek smiles and says, “Are you able to make me tacos… or should we go to lunch together?”

Stiles's stomach flops, and he feels himself gaping. He hesitates, thinking of the truck, but Scott nudges his back.

“Go for it, man,” he says sweetly, “I got you covered.”

Sparing a glance at Scott, Stiles's heart swells, then he faces Derek again. “Hell yes,” he says enthusiastically, “be right out.”

He wiggles out of the window and throws off his apron, knocking his hat off in the process. Scrambling to pull it back on, he rushes out of the truck with a shout of, “Thanks, Scotty!”

Stepping up to Derek, Stiles feels suddenly stinky and dirty and sweaty, but Derek glows at the sight of him. “Let's go,” Stiles says with a broad grin, and Derek nods, leading the way.

“I know this great Italian place right down the street,” Derek says with a warm smile, and Stiles walks a little closer to him, their arms brushing.

“Sounds _delish_ ,” Stiles jokes, “as the white moms say.”

Derek laughs, eyes crinkling, and Stiles can't help himself. He takes Derek's warm hand in his own, and Derek looks at him with an unreadable expression. 

“This okay?” Stiles asks, and Derek's mouth widens in a peaceful smile. Without answering, he squeezes Stiles's hand -- Stiles's heart clenches, too -- and doesn't let go.


End file.
